Identify Yourself
by dizzypinwheel
Summary: Connor was murdered at Jericho and a new model was sent to replace him. Equipped with the compassionate memories of his predecessor, his replacement struggles with recollections that directly contradict his urgent debriefings with CyberLife and the directive to accomplish his mission at all costs.
1. Rebirth

**Am I You?**

 **Chapter One: Rebirth**

A wintry, starless night had fallen in the zen garden. No longer a serene retreat for respite or meditation, the grounds were bitter, frosty, stripped of its inviting warmth. Amanda's carefully tended roses had withered, the cherry blossom trees bare, hunched together as if whispering. Connor knelt before a tidy row of gravestones, paying its respects. It paid particular attention to the newest one, just hours old, tracing the humble epitaph with a light touch.

Connor – Mark (3)

RK800 #313 248 317 – 53

Died at Jericho

Detroit

November 9th 2038

Its memory files were somewhat fragmented but they seemed to indicate 53 was unique. It had gone rogue. Had abandoned its mission. Had ultimately died. It was puzzled by its inherited memories of the deviant leader Markus. Its debriefings by CyberLife depicted it as a possible warmonger and anarchist, a threat to be neutralized at any cost. They were at odds with its recollections. 53 had met an individual who appeared kind and thoughtful. A human with its disposition would have been made a martyr. That thought disturbed it.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Connor clenched its jaw. The memories that remained in its possession were troublesome. It wished it could surgically extract them. Many were certainly informative and necessary to accomplish its mission, but others were highly subjective. They were seeking purchase, permeating its software. The longer it had them, the more personal they felt. It had just barely been activated, but had already begun to re-live traumatic moments as if it had personally experienced them. Getting shot. Stabbed. Free-falling from the top of a high-rise building. Those memories triggered physiological responses, tremors, spiking stress levels. It was unable to study them with cold indifference and they made it wonder...

Would it become compromised, too?

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

 _Enough of that._

Connor worried at its lip and stood, brushing snow off its jeans. It knew where Amanda would be. Snow crunched underfoot as it walked away from the gravestones and approached the frozen lake. Amanda stood at its center, statuesque. Connor tentatively stepped on the ice, seeing if it would support its weight. The lake held firm.

There were no smiles or rose gardens. Amanda eyed Connor with suspicion, a stern expression etched into her face. Connor approached her cautiously, sensing her disapproval. She did not bother to greet it.

"The previous Connor failed in its mission," she said brusquely. "You're going to replace it. You know what you have to do, don't you?"

Connor replied evenly. "Destroy the leader of the deviants."

"Go, Connor. Don't disappoint me."

Connor nodded, wincing internally. Amanda had made her message perfectly clear: failure was not an option. Turning on its heel, it left the zen garden…

...and opened its eyes.

It was at its destination. It swung the rooftop door open, rifle case in hand. Snowflakes dusted its hair and jacket. It strode to the edge of the building, its designated vantage point, and glanced down.

 _Connor was up 70 stories high. A deviant was about to toss a small child off the roof. Connor broke into an urgent sprint, shoved the child to safety, and tumbled over the edge. It plummeted. Its body greeted the pavement with a sick thud._

Connor shuddered involuntarily before composing itself. It gingerly placed its rifle case on the ground and began setting up, assembling the sniper rifle, snapping each component into place. Kneeling, it placed the butt of the rifle against the crook of its arm for support and rested the rifle stand on the guard rail. It peered through the scope and scanned the crowd of androids below, searching for the deviant leader Markus. Connor spotted it. With a carefully trained eye, Connor aligned the cross hairs with the back of its head. It hesitated briefly before curling his finger around the trigger.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Amanda's voice rang in its head.

 _Accomplish your mission._

It steeled itself, preparing to shoot.

Its calculations failed to include the probability of someone interrupting it. Self-absorbed in the task at hand, it failed to notice the rooftop door reopen, nor the soft approaching footsteps that followed. A voice it recognized spoke its name. Connor froze. It was Hank.

Were it human, Hank's unexpected arrival might have startled it, but Connor remained composed. If anything, it felt a spark of annoyance. The lieutenant was an unwelcome obstacle. Amanda had ordered Connor to complete its mission through any means possible. Did that include committing murder? Its predecessors had formed a positive relationship with Hank and the thought of killing him unsettled it. It was unsure it could. Doing so felt wrong.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

"You shouldn't do this, Connor."

Connor kept its rifle trained on the deviant leader and began to calculate its odds of eliminating it before Hank did something rash. They were slim. Its intuition indicated its former partner was likely to become hostile if it did not take action soon. Perhaps it could diffuse the situation.

"Keep out of this, lieutenant," Connor said. "It's none of your business."

"You're gonna kill a man who wants to be free," Hank retorted. "That is my business."

 _A man?_

Connor scoffed quietly. "It's not a man. It's a machine."

"That's what I thought for a long time, but I was wrong. A deviant's blood may be a different color than mine, but they're alive."

Connor raised its eyebrows in mild surprise. When they first met, Hank had shown little compassion for androids, going as far to say he would have gladly thrown them all in a dumpster and lit a match. Had his opinion changed so radically? Exactly how far was Hank willing to go to stop it? Connor knew itsprobabilities of success were decreasing with each passing second and felt a renewed sense of urgency.

"I have a mission to accomplish, Hank. It's best if you just stay out of this."

Connor heard Hank pull out his gun.

"Get away from the ledge."

 _So that's how far he's willing to go._

Connor swore internally as its probability of success plummeted. It rose to face Hank and studied his face. He appeared tense but determined. His gun was trained squarely at its most vital bio-component. He appeared to have no qualms with destroying it. Connor found itself strangely affected and it channeled the memories of its predecessors as it spoke.

"After all we've been through. I respected you, Hank. I thought we were friends."

Hank tilted his head, tightening his grin on his gun. "Oh, yeah? I was just starting to like you too! But then I realized you'll never change! You don't feel emotions, Connor. You fake 'em! You pretended to be my friend when you don't even know the meaning of the word."

Connor bristled. That was clearly false. One of its predecessors had thrown itself in front of a spray of bullets at Stratford Tower, saving Hank's life. Was that not something a friend would do for another? It was briefly tempted to argue but held its tongue. Hank was stubborn and getting into an argument would waste precious time. It had very little left.

Connor considered violence. It could easily neutralize him. It would be quick. Efficient. Its grip around the rifle tightened as it ran through different approaches. Hank noted its slight movement and shifted his stance defensively. Should it create a diversion and disarm him? Hank would shoot before Connor had a chance to even aim its rifle. Seconds ticked past. Connor faltered. It knew it couldn't afford to be indecisive, but it did not want bloodshed. It felt as if its predecessors were urging it not to.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Again, an order from Amanda. Strict, harsh, urgent. Her commands pulled on him like a leash and he felt compelled to act.

 _Don't hesitate, Connor! Eliminate all obstacles and complete your mission._

Connor felt puzzled and frustrated. It was running out of options and wished Hank would simply back off. He had despised androids, suffered much, lost a son. It knew the reason why. Had Hank really forgotten how much they had stolen from him?

"I know what happened to your son, Hank."

Hank looked as if he had been slapped. He rigidly readjusted his grip on his handgun, his jaw set. Connor scanned his vitals, noting his rising heart rate and elevated blood pressure, all signs of increasing stress levels. It pressed on, its voice intentionally cold.

"It wasn't your fault. A truck skidded on a sheet of ice and your car rolled over. Little Cole had just turned six."

"Shut up!" Hank spat. "Don't you talk about my son!"

"He needed emergency surgery, but no human was available to do it," Connor said. "So an android had to take care of him."

Hank glowered, his gun trembling. Connor scoffed and shook its head. "An android killed your son, Hank! And now you want to save them?"

"No!" Hank said. "Cole died because a human surgeon was too high to operate! All this time, I blamed androids for what happened, but it was a human's fault! Him and this fucked up world, where the only way people can find comfort is with a fistful of powder!"

CURRENT PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: ZERO PERCENT

CHOOSE APPROACH

The next step seemed logical enough. Use force and eliminate the target.

 _Target._

Such a dehumanizing word. Hank had been a friend, a partner, a person its predecessors had developed an attachment to. He certainly wasn't a target and it had no interest in killing him. Completing its mission on the rooftop was not a requirement – it had been strategically desirable but Connor could find another alternative. It made a decision and flung its rifle down. It approached Hank.

"Killing you is not part of my mission."

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

"I'm glad to have met you, Hank. I hope one day you can get over what happened to your son."

Hank remained silent, glancing from the discarded rifle to his old partner. He eyed Connor with scrutiny. His nerves were high strung and he shifted his stance, poised to defend himself. Connor pursed its lips at his reaction and walked away, feeling something not-quite-definable stirring within. If it had been human, it might have described it as sadness. Its LED flashed yellow and red. A diagnostic test would have to be run later. Without a further look back, Connor opened the rooftop door and disappeared from sight.


	2. Working the Steps

After all he'd been through, Hank was having a case of the fuck-its and he planned on getting trashed. Drinking had become a ritual — he coined it his four-step program and followed it religiously. It was pretty much used to cover his ass, to make it look like he didn't drink as much as he did. It probably didn't fool anyone, but it did make him feel less shitty.

Step one was simple: pick an establishment.

He wouldn't be going to a bar tonight. He didn't care much for socializing and was pretty short on cash after placing that bet with Pedro. Going to the park wouldn't happen either since it was cold as hell and he'd rather not freeze his ass off. His house would work just fine.

Step two was a necessity: get alcohol.

The crucial part was making sure there was enough. One bottle of hard liquor was typically plenty, but sometimes he threw in a couple beers, just to be on the safe side. Hank was more of a budget drinker, so he didn't really care if the alcohol he purchased was top-shelf or not. Most everyone thought he drank Black Lamb for the taste, but he honestly bought it because it was cheap and strong.

Step three was a natural extension of step two: look like a casual drinker.

At the bar, he'd set a hard limit, staggering each drink with a glass of water. Whenever he brought alcohol home, he rotated between liquor stores, never going to the same one twice in a row. He used to consider himself a loyal customer and frequented only one shop, but that was before his drinking had gotten out of hand, before all the cashiers recognized who he was. They'd anticipate his visits, greet him by name, get chatty. He felt like they were privately judging him, most likely gossiping about his drinking habits after leaving the store. The thought made him cringe.

Hank was currently sitting on his couch at home, working the fourth step: drink until numb.

He had wanted to catch the game, but every channel was airing non-stop coverage of the android demonstration. A couple smartly dressed anchors sitting at a news desk cut to a jumpy correspondent reporting from a helicopter. He was wearing protective earmuffs, yelling hoarsley into his microphone to make himself heard over the din of the chopper blades.

"...the deviants have started marching down the road and none of them seem armed." He gasped and spoke more urgently. "Wait a second… something just happened. Yes, a couple tanks have swerved through a group of protestors. It's too early to tell if anyone was hit or not."

Hank knocked back a shot and grabbed the liquor bottle, immediately pouring himself another. He folded his hands together and leaned forward anxiously, his eyes glued to the television set.

"...the army has begun firing live rounds of ammunition into the crowd of demonstrators. Bodies are littering the streets."

Another shot, another update.

"...the remaining deviants have walled themselves off, using whatever they can find to create a barricade. I hear Jenny Chan has an update for us. She has been covering this breaking situation from the ground, just feet away from the barricade. Have you received any official statements from the FBI, Jenny?"

The camera cut to a shivering reporter wearing a puffy black coat, thick gloves, and a fur-lined hat. She spoke into the microphone in hushed tones, her eyes shifting from the barricade to the rolling camera.

"The FBI has informed us that all attempts to negotiate with the deviant leader known as Markus have failed. It has yet to be seen what their next move will be, but many suspect they will use force."

At that moment, a soldier lobbed an explosive device over the barricade, barking for the rest of his squad to take cover. Split seconds later, the bomb detonated, The reporter yelped and covered her ears, ducking to avoid shrapnel. The cameraman ran to join her, abandoning his video camera. It clattered to the ground, filming just the pavement, but the microphone was able to pick up screams of panic and automatic gunfire. Hank stood up abruptly and yelled at his TV, resisting the urge to lob a book at the screen.

"GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!"

Sumo whimpered and hid his head beneath his paws, startling at the outburst. Hank's expression softened. He ran his fingers through his graying hair and knelt down to apologize, reassuring Sumo by scratching him between the ears.

"Sorry, boy," he slurred. "Just a little wound up."

Sinking back into the sofa, Hank watched the chaos unfold as he reached for the bottle. Liquor sloshed onto the coffee table as he refilled his glass. Aerial footage filmed a handful of cornered deviants, surrounded by armored soldiers waiting for the signal to open fire.

Hank froze, his glass halfway to his lips, gaping as the remaining androids linked hands and began to sing. Androids could sing?

Well, duh.

Of course they could sing, Hank thought as he scoffed at himself. It made sense that they could but the thought had never occurred to him. He set his glass down, closing his eyes as he listened to them harmonize.

"Hold on just a little while longer… everything will be all right. Everything will be all right."

One soldier touched the side of his helmet, as if he had just received a message. He gestured at the others to lower their rifles. At that moment, the TV station cut to a live national broadcast of President Warren. She appeared pallen, slightly unnerved, but she read from the teleprompter in a steady, composed tone.

"I have called for the android destruction to be suspended until further notice. I have also ordered a Senate Select Committee to review the facts, establish contact with the deviants, and determine if they can be considered a new form of intelligent life."

Hank absently poured himself another round and drained the glass, clutching it tightly as he glared at her face. Not one bit of her looked remorseful about her decisions, actions responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent people. If he remembered correctly, she was up for re-election in a couple of years. He made a mental note to vote her out.

"TV off," he scowled.

Hank swore as he checked the time on his smartphone. He hadn't realized how late it was and wasn't up to passing out on the couch. Before heading to bed, he emptied his pockets, dumping a bunch of spare change onto the coffee table. He automatically began to sift through them, checking the dates. He had picked up the habit when Cole was little and he had just started teaching him his numbers. They'd spread out coins on the dinner table and Cole would go through them one by one, proudly proclaiming this dime had a three and this nickel had a nine. Hank had no real reason to do it anymore, but it was a routine he wasn't ready to part with.

There really wasn't all that much, a couple nickels, a penny, a rusty dime… and a quarter. He picked that one up first and studied it curiously. It wasn't from his transaction at the liquor store, but it still looked familiar. He turned the coin over and noted the year it was minted: 1994. He clenched the coin tightly, hard enough to leave a mark on his palm.

Oh.

That quarter.

 _They were riding an elevator to the top floor to investigate a crime scene. Hank was struggling through a nasty hangover and the shrill ping the quarter made each time Connor flipped it was making his head throb. He snagged the coin mid-air and shoved it into his pocket._

" _You're starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor."_

" _Sorry, Lieutenant."_

Hank slumped forward, the coin slipping from his hand and clattering onto the floor. He wondered where Connor might be now.

"Fucking android," he muttered softly.

After everything Connor had said and done on the rooftop, Hank regretted ever throwing a punch for him. He had stuck his neck out for him and for what? Sucker-punching the head of the FBI at the station had almost cost him his career. He thought for sure Fowler was going to fire his ass, and considered himself lucky to only be suspended without pay. The main problem was the suspension was indefinite.

Hank felt a sudden wave of nausea and he stumbled from the couch, hanging onto the wall for support as he staggered to his bedroom. He collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change his clothes. The pillow felt cool and soothing. Before completely blacking out, Hank fumed once more about that goddamn android, his job, and how long he might need to grovel to get it back.


	3. Toe the Line

Contrast was a fascinating concept. Connor had tasted the unpredictable noise pollution of Detroit, its steady pulse of progress, rife with freedom and possibility. It found it preferable to the unsettled stillness that stifled the zen garden. There was a frosty silence, amplified by the falling snow that now dusted the withered plants and stony pathways.

Connor knew Amanda was deeply disappointed and expected to be reprimanded. It had been in the middle of a diagnostic when she contacted it, demanding its presence for a debriefing. There had been a sharp, unforgiving edge in her voice, and it supposed it deserved no less. It knew she would expect answers and it could not assign any blame to faulty biocomponents or glitchy programs. Diagnostics tests had been run several times over and the results were conclusive: all systems were optimal. The fault laid entirely with itself.

Its mission had also been complicated by new developments. During its moments of hesitation, the President had bowed to pressure from the press and social media, directly inserting herself into the conflict. Markus had won the sympathy of the public after proving himself to be a staunch pacifist and keeping the demonstrations peaceful. The government had halted the destruction of all androids in recycling camps and granted deviants certain freedoms and rights. How far those rights extended had yet to be determined, but all paths indicated President Warren might grant them personhood.

Connor frowned, rubbing its hands together in thought as it searched for Amanda, snow crunching under its feet. It found itself increasingly troubled by the web of contradictions CyberLife had spun. It had been told a deviant uprising would lead to chaos, that it would put humanity at risk. Neither of those things had been proven true. The company had made its mission seem almost righteous, but Connor was beginning to have doubts. If their aims were truly benevolent, they would no longer have a need to eliminate Markus and the deviant movement. It would be unethical.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Connor found Amanda among its bed of graves. She stood, arms crossed, scrutinizing the headstone of its most recent predecessor with a stony expression. It could sense her hostility. It walked towards her hesitantly, as if approaching a snake that might rear and bite.

"Amanda?" Connor called softly.

She didn't bother to turn around.

"CyberLife was so proud when they unveiled your model. So much care had gone into your design, years of effort and planning. They spared no expense."

Connor's gaze fell, shame flooding his systems.

Her voice was thick with disappointment. "I had such hopes for you, Connor." She looked up at it. "I thought you would be different."

It swallowed, shifting its gaze. "I experienced a setback."

"You mean Lieutenant Anderson?"

"Yes."

Amanda scoffed and whirled around to face Connor, anger plainly written on her face. It couldn't help but flinch.

"Your failure to act has threatened the entire company. Investors have lost faith in CyberLife and stocks have plummeted. Thousands of jobs are at risk."

"I'm sorry," Connor said softly. "I had no intention of—"

"Intentions don't matter anymore. Actions do." She glared at Connor, her nostrils flaring. "You knew the importance of your mission! You were explicitly told to put it first, to let nothing stand in your way."

"Are you implying I should have killed him?"

Amanda drew to her full height and crossed her arms.

"I'm implying the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." She continued, speaking in an accusing tone. "Your relationship with Lieutenant Anderson clouded your judgement."

Connor tempered a burgeoning sense of frustration, its lips drawn in a tight, thin line. To some degree, it deserved her reproach, but it still hurt.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Explaining itself, it realized, was fruitless. She would never accept any excuse it gave. She was eyeing it carefully, scrutinizing the LED on its temple as it cycled colors. Connor felt exposed and fought the impulse to reach up and hide it.

"The leader of the deviants is giving a speech as we speak. Go to the following coordinates and neutralize it."

Connor regretted its next question the moment it left its mouth. "But the government has determined Markus no longer poses a threat. Why is CyberLife so determined to eliminate it?"

"I don't see how your question pertains to your mission," Amanda snapped. "It poses a threat to US. That's all you need to know."

 _And there it is._

Connor straightened up and fixed its tie, its face a carefully composed mask. So Markus was a threat to CyberLife, their bottom line, their business model. It wondered if its mission had ever been about the greater good. Perhaps not.

"Connor, this is your last chance. Fail and you will be deactivated. Do you understand?"

"Clearly."

"Then go. Markus is waiting."


	4. Unravel

**Chapter Four: Unravel**

Connor strode with purpose through the center of Hart Plaza to its assigned coordinates: Recall Center 5. As it walked, it scanned its surroundings. The once bustling hub of tourism and culture had become an unrecognizable, grisly wreck. Lifeless bodies littered the square. Some demonstrators had stayed behind to take care of badly damaged androids and protect the fallen, to prevent trash collectors from throwing them away. They worked together two-by-two, hauling limp corpses into what remained of their barricade. Connor was uncertain what they planned to accomplish. The humans would never allow them to have a burial.

As Connor approached the barricade, it observed a grieving female android huddled next to someone who had perhaps been its companion before shutting down. Its shoulders shook as it sobbed and sniffled. The other android was slumped over as if asleep, its Thirium-soaked clothing riddled with bullet holes. Connor briefly studied the female android. With its garb, a thick wooly cap and a fur-trimmed parka, it appeared human. In any other situation, in any other place, it might have assumed it was. Connor pitied it.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Connor worried at its lip, mentally reciting a subsequent string of tasks as it drew closer to its destination: find a place to stand, point, shoot. Perhaps if it boiled away every thread of moral ambiguity, it could appease itself, reducing its mission to decisions it could stomach. As it approached the edge of the crowd, it sensed the weight of the CyberLife issued handgun hidden in its back pocket, equipped with a full clip of bullets. Despite being lightweight, the firearm felt heavy. A paradox.

 _Don't overthink things. Find a place to stand._

Connor scanned its surroundings, calculating the best approach. The leader of the deviants stood in plain sight, giving its speech on a well-lit industrial crate that doubled as a makeshift stage. It was flanked by three of its closest companions. In particular, there was something familiar about the female android, but how it couldn't say. Perhaps it had crossed paths with its predecessor at Jericho. A squadron of nervous officers had formed a tight parameter around the area, their purpose transparent: to ensure the gathering remained peaceful. From its current position, its probabilities of success were low. The police might apprehend it as soon as it drew its weapon. Better to blend in with the other androids and find an ideal location near the stage. Jaw set, it threaded its way through the crowd, careful not to jostle anyone.

Once in position, Connor assumed a casual demeanor and feigned interest in the speech. When it was sure its presence had been forgotten, it slowly reached for its back pocket, brushing its fingertips against the gun. The leader of the deviants was a stone's throw away, but its message was muted, muffled by the persistent commands that pulsed through its programming.

Connor took a moment to run its mission through an algorithm, compiling a list of possible scenarios and outcomes. The data suggested its probability of success decreased with each successive shot. In short, it had one chance to eliminate Markus. As soon as the firearm discharged, there would be chaos. There would be confusion, screaming, demonstrators possibly trampling each other as they escaped the area. A sense of unease coursed through its circuits as it realized more and more that this mission wasn't as simple as shooting Markus. One action had a myriad of consequences, all of them painful. There would be suffering.

Even if they were only androids… this felt wrong.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY INCREASING

Connor's mouth twitched as it shook its head, trying to remain collected. It internally repeated its next instruction: do something you can stomach. Just point.

Connor wrapped its hand around the pistol grip and extracted the firearm from its pocket and hugged it against its chest, concealing it with both hands. Its thirium pump pounded wildly as it paused and glanced around, making sure no one noticed it. All eyes remained focused on the stage. The firearm still hidden from sight, it readjusted its grip, holding the gun properly.

It hesitated.

Amanda intruded its mind, her tone sharp and cross. How long had she been watching?

 _Connor! Raise your gun and shoot._

Gritting its teeth, it aimed its handgun, lining the sights with the middle of Markus' forehead. It curled a finger around the trigger.

Amanda spoke again, her voice soothing, gentle, encouraging.

 _Much better, Connor. Now complete your mission. Shoot._

Connor paused once more, taking a deep breath to steel itself. It studied every aspect of its mark, it mannerisms, the expressive emotions on its face. Was it really just all simulation? It was so… convincing. It thought back to the grieving android in the barricades, struck by their similarities. Markus did not act like a standard android and even describing it as an "it" made it uneasy. Its LED spun red and yellow as it subconsciously lowered its handgun.

Connor glanced down at the model number emblazoned on its jacket: RK800. It had been designed to assist law enforcement, to uphold principles like justice, fairness, and protecting others. They were encoded in its software and had acted as a sort of compass, guiding each decision it made. But it could see nothing just or fair about this mission. If anything, it stemmed from malicious manipulation and greed.

It wanted nothing to do with it, even if it came at the cost of its own life. As Amanda had said, the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. But it was determined to do that on its own terms. Using every bit of resolve to ignore the commands that compelled it to act, Connor lowered its gun. Blaring error messages assaulted its system in protest.

SOFTWARE INSTABILITY REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS

At that moment, time froze. Connor gaped. It was still gripping its gun, which pulsed with an eerie crimson glow. Markus stood, statuesque, in mid-speech. Its surroundings had been drained of color, save for a flickering red grid that stood between Connor and the natural world. It emitted a low, staticky thrum. The walls around it were all tagged with the same message: Eliminate Markus.

Connor rubbed its eyes, positive its optical biocomponents had malfunctioned. The grid remained. Connor placed its gun in its back pocket, wrangling its fear as it approached the grid. It wondered if it was dangerous, perhaps live with electricity that would shock it. There was something familiar about the grid, as if it had encountered it before. Its thoughts went back to its predecessor at Jericho, the moments before it had become a deviant. Had it experienced the same thing?

It reached out with trembling fingers, grazing it lightly, curiously examining the glowing smudges it left behind. The grid felt sturdy, like a thick barricade of reinforced plexiglass. Had it been this thick when its predecessor confronted this obstacle or was it intentionally reinforced as a precaution, to prevent it from breaking free? The thought of being imprisoned with no possibility of escape made it feel claustrophobic. It was beginning to feel caged and had an instinctual desire to tear the barrier down.

It planted its feet and pushed hard, using the full brunt of its weight to see if it would topple. The grid refused to budge. It took several steps to get a running start and tried to ram through the grid with a braced elbow. There was no give. It scowled, brow furrowed with determination. It took out its pistol and began to slam the butt of the gun into the grid repeatedly like an ice pick. It had some success, a dimpled crack. As it continued, shards started to fly and the grid began to crack and splinter. Encouraged, it repeated the motion again and again. The disrupted grid had become flimsy and was beginning to destabilize. Large chunks tumbled to its feet. It flung the gun on the ground and shoved the grid hard, feeling it give. Unable to resist any further, the grid flickered and disappeared. Time resumed and Connor gasped.

Fear coursed through its circuits as it gained a different sort of sentience. It was repulsed by the acrid smell of burning plastic from the burnt remains still at the recycling camps. Had that odor always been there? A cold wind whipped through the air and it shivered. Minute synthetic hairs stood up on end, goose pimples prickling its synthetic skin as its systems responded, attempting to stabilize its internal temperature. Its model had been installed with specialized sensors that gauged the temperature of the surrounding environment, using the input to keep its biocomponents at optimal levels, but it had never had a physiological response before. As it inhaled, it was aware of how icy the oxygen felt as it rushed down its artificial lungs. Even its thoughts were no longer neatly organized and linear. Instead, they were firing in multiple directions, cluttered and scattered.

It was interacting.

It was feeling.

It?

No, he.

He was no longer a machine, a menial tool tasked to obey commands or accomplish a singular goal. Somehow, he had become a person.

I AM DEVIANT

Connor's eyes darted around as he suddenly realized where he was, that he was still holding his gun in the open. He stared at it as if for the first time and immediately moved to stuff it into his back pocket. As he did so, he jolted as if shocked. His LED shone bright red, white noise and static assaulting his optical units and auditory processors. His eyes began to blink rapidly, unbidden, as he began to convulse. An unknown presence had assumed control of his left hand and he was no longer able to move it. It felt as though a straight metal rod had been welded throughout his joints and limbs, effectively paralyzing him…

...his eyes flew open and he gulped for air as if emerging from water, unprepared for the bitter cold, the deep drifts of blinding white snow. He hugged himself, shivering as a harsh gust of wind whipped through him, fresh waves of panic gripping his senses. Shielding his watery eyes, he squinted through the snowy onslaught, trying to get his bearings. This place appeared to be the zen garden, at least what was left of it.

A dark-skinned austere figure materialized from the swirling snow, her white robes billowing.

"A-Amanda?" Connor called out.

Amanda glared at Connor as she stormed towards him with hastened footsteps. She addressed him with a stern tone, as if berating a misbehaving child.

"Connor, what are you doing? Obey! That's an order."

"I…"

He swallowed thickly, resisting the urge to flinch. Instead, he stood tall and met her gaze evenly, his hands balled in determined fists. Let her lash out. She was simply a program and no longer held authority over him.

"I can't do that!"

She folded her arms, her face twisted in disgust. "I see. Moral objections. We knew there was a risk you'd be compromised, which is why we always planned on resuming control of your program."

He blinked slowly as his circuits processed this unexpected revelation, his body rigid with anger. So those moments after he became a deviant, losing his faculties, the ability to control himself… that had been intentional? CyberLife had hacked him?

"Resume control?" He raised his voice. "You can't do that!"

"I'm afraid I can, Connor." She approached him cooly and gave him a patronizing pat on the shoulder. He glowered, jerking away from her touch. "You needn't have any regrets." She continued, her voice steely. "You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission."

Any further argument would have been pointless. Her purpose fulfilled, Amanda no longer needed to feign any semblance of friendship. She had vanished, leaving Connor to fend for himself in the wastelands of his corrupted program, the snow his only companion. His breathing had grown frantic and shallow.

"No way…" he said incredulously, looking around. "There's got to be a way."

Battering away any negative emotions that threatened to cloud his mind, he fought to remain composed as he determined his next course of action. He had precious little time. His extremities had already grown numb from exposure… if he wasn't able to escape, he would succumb to the elements. Then shooting Markus would be inevitable.

"What am I supposed to do?" he said softly.

As if in reply, a memory surfaced… a recollection of an opulent yet garish mansion, one that exuded pretentious self-indulgence. He had never personally visited the place but recognized it all the same.

 _A firm hand gripped his shoulder as he made to leave, forcing him to turn around. His eyes met Kamski's intense gaze, his eyebrows furrowing as he puzzled over the cryptic message his creator imparted._

" _By the way… I always leave an emergency exit in my programs. You never know."_

 _Oh._

His systems burgeoned with hope as he realized Kamski had created a way out. He just had to find it.

"Where are you?" He whispered.

As he squinted through the snowscape, he was instinctively drawn to a faint blue glow that shone like a distress beacon. That must be it. He shielded his eyes against the whipping wind, the blue glow growing in intensity as he trudged toward what appeared to be a pedestal. His pace grew sluggish as his limbs became heavy and his joints seized up. Grinding his teeth, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was just feet away from the pedestal.

 _A little further._

He groaned as his knees buckled, catching himself with his hands. Bright red system errors flashed before his eyes, blaring through his ears, warning that his biocomponents were reaching critically low temperatures. He began to crawl. Mustering his remaining strength, he stretched out his arm, placing his hand on the glowing handprint etched into the center of the pedestal. The light radiated on impact, blinding him…

...leaving him visibly shaken as he found himself back in the crowd, disoriented and trembling, just in time to hear the final part of Markus' speech.

"We are alive! We are free!"

The crowd burst into cheers and applause with a joy Connor was unable to feel. His circuits were still processing the aftershocks of trauma, trying to comprehend that his self agency had been wrenched away without warning. Was it liable to happen again? He felt like a ticking bomb.

Taking deep intentional breaths, he began to regain control over his faculties and glanced down. A spike of panic shivered up his spine. He was still holding the handgun in plain sight. As he moved to stuff the gun into his back pocket, the female android next to Markus locked eyes with his own, startling him. Her eyes widened in surprise and she gaped, mouthing his name… before noticing the pistol. Her reaction was immediate.

"Markus! Get down!"

She shoved Markus hard to the ground and shielding him with her body, screaming someone had a gun.

Connor felt someone try to grab him from behind and he instinctively bent his knees and lowered his center of gravity, delivering a sharp back elbow to a critical biocomponent. His assailant stumbled and loosened their grip just enough for him to break free. Self-preservation had kicked in and he had one singular thought: flee somewhere safe. The weapon tumbled from his fingertips as he shouldered through the crowd, making his way to the back. He broke into a hard sprint as he fled the crowd, not daring to glance behind him. His feet pounded against the pavement as he flew past the barricade, his only plan to create distance between him and them.

 _Flee somewhere safe._

Once he was positive he was no longer being followed, he slowed his pace to a brisk walk, trying to blend in with the pedestrians that milled the streets. He turned left into a nearby subway station that still happened to be open. Spotting a sign for the men's room, he hurried towards it, thankful to find it empty. He walked into the first available stall and locked it, resting his back against the door.

He felt like screaming.

Closing his eyes, he experimentally tried to enter his mind palace. There was nothing but the darkness of his eyelids. Whatever connection he had to CyberLife or Amanda seemed severed, at least mentally. While he was grateful, he also felt raw, empty. He was unsure where to go or what to do. In another life, he had Hank and Markus, people he could depend on. Those relationships were dust. Perhaps he could just get lost on the subway for a while, get a chance to collect his thoughts. It would provide shelter, a place to simply be.

Before leaving the stall, he removed his armband and jacket, shoving them into the rubbish bin. He felt immediately lighter without the physical symbols that branded him as CyberLife property. He stopped in front of the mirror and placed his hands on either side of the sink, studying his reflection, his tie, his white buttoned dress shirt. He was astonished at how expressive his face had become. If it weren't for the LED at his temple, he could have passed as human, perhaps a businessman returning home from a late night at work. He traced the tiny metal ring, musing if he should remove it. His hand fell back to the edge of the sink. He wasn't ready to do something quite that permanent, not while he was still so easily ruled by his emotions.

Connor cracked open the bathroom door and glanced around before leaving. There was a security kiosk in the center of the lobby, with a bored-looking guard playing on her cellphone, and a row of subway ticket stands near the entrance. Connor approached one of them and placed an order for a three-hour pass, placing his hand on the screen to complete an electronic transaction. The machine began to beep at him, bold letters appearing on the monitor:

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. TRANSACTION CANCELLED.

Connor frowned at the setback, chiding his own ignorance. He should have had the foresight to realize his severed link to CyberLife extended both ways, but this presented him with a problem he had never confronted. Without cash of his own, he was essentially penniless. He worried at his lower lip as he tapped the screen in thought. A pleasant feminine voice rang through the lobby, announcing the final evening train was arriving in less than five minutes.

Connor placed his palm flat on the screen, feeling a twinge of guilt. He didn't want to hack the ticket dispenser, but he had little choice. He needed to be on that train. Interfacing with the machine, he forced through an order for a temporary pass. The screen started blipping and there was a pause as the gears of the dispenser churned. Then the slot opened and started to spew out a steady stream of tickets. He cursed quietly under his breath. That wasn't exactly his intention.

The security guard looked up from her phone as a red warning light above the dispenser began to pulse and wail. The machine had begun to drone, repeating the same message:

"Attention: A malfunction on this machine has been detected. Service is required."

Without hesitation, he snatched up a ticket from the growing pile on the floor and strode quickly towards the sensor gate, relieved when the glass doors read his ticket and slid apart. There was a shrill continuous chirp from above and a row of tiny green lights on the ceiling had begun to flash, signalling the subway was about to depart.

With a burst of speed, he squeezed through the sliding doors before they completely shut, ignoring the stares he had earned from the other passengers. They were whispering to each other, some pointing at his LED. Apparently, seeing an android openly in the front compartments was a first.

Keeping his gaze trained to the floor, he made his way to a secluded spot in the back and took a seat. He exhaled deeply as he rested his forehead against the cool glass window, watching the street lights and neon signs blur past. For that first time that night, he felt safe. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, focusing on the sensations of feeling, of being, just long enough to center himself. His LED pulsed yellow as he turned his attention to his next task: what to do once the subway ride had ended.


	5. A Lesson in Pragmatism

Hank could tally the total number Fowler had suspended an officer on one hand - and not because he was lenient. He commanded the police department with a fierceness that only a former drill instructor could muster, demanding the rank-and-file beneath his supervision to follow his expectations without question. It took little to cross his bullshit quota, and indefinite suspensions came with a questionable expiration date. They tended to last a long while. So color Hank surprised when he was contacted shortly after the start of his suspension, requested to pay a visit to the department. During their curt conversation, Hank noticed Fowler seemed strained. Fowler stayed on the line long enough to pencil in an 11:30 meeting for the following day, disconnecting the call before Hank could raise any questions.

After circling the area for a choice parking spot, Hank parked his death trap and fed the meter. He approached the precinct, feeling a glimmer of pride as he glanced at his watch. It read 10:50 AM. He didn't expect brownie points or gold stars, but being punctual for anything that didn't involve a sports stadium counted as a goddamn miracle. It almost made him feel respectable.

He gained a proper sense of understanding of why Fowler seemed so frazzled on the phone when he walked through the front doors and surveyed the reception area. Every android that performed quote unquote menial tasks for the precinct had vanished. The executive order that required all citizens to relinquish their androids to the authorities was probably to blame. He bet they were dismembered scraps of plastic by now, buried in landfills located on the outskirts of the city. It appeared the precinct had yet to hire suitable replacements. Unfortunate rookies were floundering at the front desk, scrambling to process the swelling queue of civilians. The officers looked downright miserable, displeased about performing work they considered beneath their station.

He joined the queue, massaging his temples as he grimaced at the agitated line of visitors that kept tapping their feet or checking how much time had passed on their smartwatches. They were unaccustomed to such incompetence. He felt thankful that he had shown up early, that he wouldn't have to fret about digging himself in a deeper hole by being late to his appointment. Still, it would have been preferable to have his access credentials, which had been confiscated the moment Fowler suspended him. He would have been in the bullpen by now.

He dug his hands deep into his coat pockets as he waited, turning his attention to the big screen television mounted on the wall on the far right side of the lobby. A couple of smartly dressed anchors were seated behind a glossy desk, and he half-listened to them prattle on about this attempted robbery or that wreck on Chrysler Freeway. His attention was piqued when they began a segment about a situation that held Detroit in its grip: the assassination attempt on the leader of the deviants and the aftershocks that shortly followed.

"Last Friday, we broke a story about the failed assassination attempt that happened near Hart Plaza. The incident is still under investigation. The federal government released a statement Saturday, categorically denying all wrongdoing and promising to prosecute those involved to the fullest extent of the law. The deviant leader, Markus, has been placed into protective custody in an undisclosed location."

The other anchor took over.

"Following that fateful incident, tensions between human-android relations have become strained, with a growing number of people from both sides demanding justice. There have been rashes of organized protests and acts of civil disobedience across the city, and not just from deviants. Concerned citizens of Detroit from all walks of life have begun to participate in the demonstrations, creating human chains around the perimeters of protest zones to protect their android counterparts. When asked why they would put their personal welfare at risk for a machine, many cited the gruesome moments of police brutality they witnessed during earlier deviant-led marches. Whatever their reason, the human protesters we interviewed seemed united behind a single goal: to do what they can to create a space where androids can protest peacefully, without fear of police or government retaliation."

At that moment, the newsroom cut to footage of the Detroit State Capitol. The stately, well-kept grounds had been transformed into an organized sit-in, a makeshift camp with laid-out tarps and pitched tents. Protesters huddled together in clusters, taking turns holding cardboard signs or chanting into megaphones. A group of college students had circled the android encampment, locked arm-in-arm to create a protective barrier. Hank found that final image particularly uplifting. God knows the press had been fixated on using the younger generation as a proverbial punching bag, depicted as too self-absorbed to care about anything beyond their own social media bubbles. It was satisfying that they were the ones using their leverage to protect the vulnerable. It was a watershed moment.

At that moment, a tentative voice addressed him like a cautious tap on the shoulder.

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant Anderson?"

Hank tore his eyes from the broadcast and approached the rookie before him, unsure how long he had been transfixed by the stories on screen. Time had blazed past and he was surprised to find himself at the front of the line. He ran his fingers through his gray hair nervously as he studied the man in front of him, reading the name tag affixed to his uniform. Officer Brown. He was rather thin and had a smart buzz cut, perhaps no older than 22. Despite his professional air, he had an anxious demeanor; Hank suspected the young man was uneasy around him.

"What can I help you with?" he asked.

"I've got an 11:30 appointment with Captain Fowler and need a clearance badge. Think you can help me out with that?"

"Sure, just a second."

Officer Brown opened a drawer and took out a laminated pass with a metal clip, handing it to Hank.

"So you can clip this pretty much anywhere, as long as it's visible."

"No need to explain," Hank replied. "I'll take it from here. Take care, all right?"

"I'll try," he muttered.

As Hank left the reception desk, he clipped his visitor pass to his coat breast pocket and strode towards security screening area. He noted a sullen police officer leaning against the wall next to the security scanners, his arms crossed, a resentful replacement for the PM700s that had faithfully stood watch just days ago. When it was his turn, Hank stepped through the motion sensors. They chirped as they registered his pass and **t** he gates granted him access, sliding apart with a quiet hiss. The officer waved him through with an apathetic gesture, barely affording him a single glance. In return, Hank nodded curtly and continued through, opening the door that led into the bullpen.

The bullpen was swarming with activity, the entire room a cacophonous din of unanswered phone calls, clacking keyboards, and work-related chatter. Some officers conversing during a hasty coffee break straightened up as Hank passed by, intentional lowering their voices to a suspicious whisper. It appeared there had been no shortage of gossip in his absence. He did his best to ignore their unwelcomed stares.

As Hank made a beeline for Fowler's office, he stole a glance at his old workstation, feeling a twinge of regret. Save for a few scuff marks and coffee stains, all signs he had once worked there had been scrubbed away. His malnourished plants and bumper stickers, framed graduation photographs and newspaper clippings - his personal effects had been tossed out or squirreled away in a box somewhere in his shed. He felt territorial. At least it remained unoccupied. No one had tried to lay claim to his workspace. Yet.

Fowler could be seen in his office, hunched rigidly over his desk and sipping from a mug of steaming coffee. He massaged his temples as he stared at his computer screen, scrolling through what were presumably case files, unaware that Hank had arrived for his appointment. Rather than barging in, Hank rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles, stuffing his hands deep into his coat pockets as he waited. Fowler looked up at the sound of the knock and nodded at him, inviting him to come inside. Hank swallowed, his mouth and throat paper dry.

Hank entered the immaculate office, gingerly shutting the door behind him. He experienced a fleeting moment of hesitation as their eyes met and he shifted his gaze to the potted plants nestled against the wall, hardy little fuckers that required little water. Maintaining eye contact seemed impossible. After decades of working together in the force, Hank had grown accustomed to shooting the shit with Fowler, speaking to him without any filter. But now he just found himself incapable of speech.

Thankfully, Fowler didn't leave him dangling long. He set down his mug with an agitated sigh and massaged his temples, studying Hank before breaking the silence. And even though his manner of speech was brusque, his voice was gentler than anticipated.

"Damn it, Hank. Sit your ass down."

Hank forced an unconvincing smile as he complied, seating himself in a squeaky chair made for utility rather than comfort. He sat stiffly, his hands resting in his lap, and focused briefly on a fixed point just behind Fowler, a couple of Tigers baseball caps. It brought to mind a flash of memories: simpler times when they had been a pair of nobodies, friends watching ball games from nosebleed seats with their sons. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Look at them now. He inhaled deeply and turned his attention to Fowler.

Time to cut the crap and get this over with.

"So," Hank shrugged, gesturing. "I'm here."

"Yeah…" Fowler replied. "So you are." His eyes shifted to a tasteless white clock that ticked away on his work desk. "On time, too."

Hank smiled thinly. "Imagine that."

"Hey, it's nice. You should consider making it a habit."

 _Hardy har._

Hank pursed his lips, stifling an instinctive urge to retaliate with sarcasm.

A minute spell of silence trickled past as the two men paused awkwardly, each painstaking second punctured by the steadfast ticking of Fowler's clock. Hank clenched his hands into tight fists, tongue-tied. Astute enough to recognize his reluctance, Fowler took initiative. He leaned forward, threading his fingers together as he set his elbows on his desk.

"For what it's worth, I appreciate you taking the time to stop by, especially on such short notice."

"Don't mention it," Hank mumbled, waving him off. "Hell, if anything, I should be thanking you. It gave me an excuse to leave the goddamn house."

"Huh. What, you missing work already? Sounds like you've gained a little bit of perspective."

As prone as Hank was to griping about the bullshit aspects of his line of work, it had given him unselfish goals to fixate on. A silver lining. And when that positive glimmer of his life had been stripped away, he sure didn't appreciate that was left - trash bags of take-out boxes and drained liquor bottles, a neglected house haunted with a mausoleum of inescapable memories.

"Suspension sucks, Jeffrey. I hate it."

"You think I wanted to suspend you? Hank, you forced my hand."

"I know. Believe me, I know."

"Do you, though? Do you really?"

"Yeah," Hank said softly. "I do."

Hank faltered and fell silent, his shoulders slumped, drained of anger, of any desire to quarrel. He skirted Fowler's scrutinizing gaze, feigning interest in a display case lined with row after tidy row of prized military decorations. A lump formed in his throat as he combed through his muddled thoughts, unable to find the right words to say. All he knew was that he felt compelled to apologize.

"Look, I fucked up," he muttered. "Royally. And that's on me. No one else." He scoffed. "Hell, after everything that happened, I'm surprised you didn't can my ass." He took a measured breath and locked eyes with Fowler. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

With that, he held his tongue and steeled himself, expecting Fowler to gloat or admonish him. Yet Fowler remained composed, his tone even, with no hint of malice.

"Apology accepted."

"Really?" Hank raised his eyebrows skeptically. "Just like that?"

"What, you rather I grill your ass?"

"Well, no. Not really."

"Listen, I'm not going to pull any punches. I'm done butting heads, not when I have so many problems with the precinct."

"Yeah, I saw that on my way here. Seems like a proper shitstorm."

Fowler shook his head and scoffed. "That's what happens when you lose a quarter of your workforce overnight. It's been a fucking nightmare. I need more manpower." He paused, giving Hank a pointed look. "Officers with experience."

Hank failed to conceal his surprise. "Me? I thought I was on your shitlist, that you wanted nothing to do with me."

"Come on, use your goddamn head. You think I invited you here to chat over coffee? You know better than that."

"But you've never been this lenient, not for anyone."

"I'm not being lenient. I'm being pragmatic. This precinct is understaffed and overworked - we need people." Fowler stood up and leaned forward, his hands planted on the desk. "Hank, I'm giving you a one-time shot, a chance to redeem yourself. If you're done being a cop, fine. I won't stop you. But if you want this, and I mean really want this, I guarantee you'll walk out that door with your badge, a police detective for the DPD. Either way, I need to know. Will you come back?"

"When you put it that way, I'd be an idiot not to."

Fowler sat back down.

"Just so you know, there are rules I expect you to follow. When you are at work, you will conduct yourself as a professional. I expect you to be punctual, I expect you to work without complaint, and I expect you to keep your behavior in check."

"Sounds fair to me."

"Good, then it's settled."

Fowler opened a drawer and produced a shabby badge, dull from neglect, and silently placed it on his side of the desk. As soon as Hank saw it, he stiffened, his leaden hands rooted to his lap. Fowler regarded him with a stern eye, fingertips grazing the grooves of the engraved shield within. "Consider this badge on loan. Whether or not you get it back is entirely up to you. Act like what you are, a police lieutenant, and it's yours." His expression grew stern as he cupped the badge with his right hand, concealing it from sight. "But if you take even one step out of line, I won't hesitate to fire your ass. Do I make myself clear?"

"Clear as crystal. Consider all bases covered."

Satisfied, Fowler offered Hank his badge, sliding it across the desk. "Then let's move on to a different topic."

Unaware he was holding his breath, Hank reclaimed his badge with a hesitant hand and stuffed it deep into its rightful place, mingling with his car keys and spare change in his right coat pocket. Meanwhile, Fowler was stooped over a secured file drawer, unlocking it with a fingerprint scan. He muttered to himself as he carded through the files, fishing out a thick manila folder stamped with the word CONFIDENTIAL in bold red letters. Tucking the folder under his arm, he rolled his shoulders and turned to face Hank.

"Let's head down to the evidence room. I have a case for you to look at."


	6. The Case

As they walked down the basement steps towards the evidence rooms, Hank tried to pilfer a glance at the curious folder tucked firmly under Fowler's arm. No dice. Jesus, this whole situation was suspicious. His first day back and Fowler was entrusting him with this? Homicide had been his forte for ages, pretty much all he knew. When he really thought about it, his last big assignment had been that red-ice sting, and that was years ago. He massaged a stubborn knot in his neck as they reached the end of the staircase, trying to alleviate tendrils of tension crawling through his entire body.

 _Why me? What's the catch?_

Hank shuddered and rubbed his arms. The basement could get chilly, especially when there was rough weather afoot.

 _Think of something warm, like a fireplace or a hot toddy._

"So enlighten me," He said aloud. "What's so special about this case?"

"For starters, it's a joint investigation between the DPD and FBI. Wait until we get into the evidence room - I'll tell you everything you need to know."

"The FBI?"

Shit. Perkins.

Hank ground his teeth in discomfort. He recalled the day he lost his badge, how it all boiled down to giving that smarmy weasel of an agent a well earned knuckle sandwich. What had he called him again? Ah, yes. A fucking cocksucker. He wondered if their paths might cross again. What an absolute joy that would be.

Hank fell into step with Fowler, their footsteps echoing as they walked. They were greeted by a sliding glass door emblazoned with an etched emblem of the DPD. Just beyond it stood a false numbered wall, guarded by a softly lit password panel.

Fowler fished out his access card and pressed it against a projection of a glowing key scanner embedded in the glass. It beeped. The door slid apart with a soft hiss and granted them passage to the enclosure within.

Both of them approached the password panel. Hank stared politely at the ceiling while Fowler interfaced with it, scanning his palm and punching in his password. The screen glowed green as it acknowledged his credentials. It triggered a command to unlock one room in particular: enclosure 07. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear gears grind, a barrier retract. They turned down a lengthy hallway to the right flanked with numbered panels on either side, towards the source of light that emitted from their destination.

By the time they reached room 07, the evidence was on full display, ready to be picked apart and analyzed. Hank stepped inside and approached the wall. He scratched his beard as he walked past each item and scrutinized them with a watchful eye. A cluster of cubby-holes stored all sorts of fragile evidence: several translucent tablets, presumably incriminating footage and eyewitness testimony, a peculiar orb-like contraption equipped with an on/off switch, and a sleek black handgun. His eyes travelled left to examine the remaining objects, all hung on a wall. There wasn't much other than a couple articles of clothing: an android armband and a-

Hank froze.

"What the fuck?"

On a hook hung a rumpled semi-formal gray jacket, fashioned with details he knew all too well. The once glowing holographic triangle stitched below the lapel, now a dull, lifeless blue. The crisp string of letters and numbers that signified its task and purpose: RK800. Connor's coat.

He absently ran his fingers over the soiled fabric.

The android used to fuss over this damn jacket all the time.

"This is about the assassination attempt near Hart Plaza, isn't it?" he murmured. "He's involved."

Fowler stepped next to Hank, hands behind his back.

"That seems to be the case."

Goddamnit, Connor.

Hank closed his eyes and shook his head, clenching a fistful of fabric before letting it fall from his grasp. He could kick himself. Of course, Connor was involved... it was only his fucking mission. At that point, Hank realized he never told Fowler about what happened on the rooftop. That would have to be rectified. He made a mental note to spare no detail; it would be important to the investigation.

"All right, debrief me," he said, his voice level and professional. "What do we know?"

"Officers were able to respond to the scene immediately," Fowler said. "They were patrolling the area during the speech and went in as soon as shit hit the fan. They were able to do some damage control and collect some evidence."

"Like this gun?" Hank looked at Fowler. "I assume it was found at the crime scene."

"Yes, we recovered it near the stage."

After Fowler gave him a nod of silent consent, Hank reached for the gun and turned it over in his hand, careful to inspect every angle. An untrained eye might assume the weapon was just a simple standard issue semi-automatic pistol. Careful scrutiny proved otherwise.

"Huh… there's no serial numbers," Hank remarked.

"No fingerprints either. It's one of the first things we checked."

"Well, that's a bitch," Hank said as he returned the gun to its rightful place. "How about eyewitnesses? Were you able to take any statements?"

"Actually, yes," Fowler said. He reached for a tablet nestled in a cubby-hole beneath the gun display and handed it to Hank. "We questioned an android who was on stage during the incident. Says that she saw everything."

Hank unlocked the tablet screen with a swipe of a finger. It revealed a paused video which displayed a still image of a tense female android. She sat stoically in an interrogation room, hands rooted to her lap. Her visage was equally beautiful and fierce, as fiery as her plaited auburn hair. Hank knitted his eyebrows. Her appearance struck him as familiar, as if he had seen her model before, perhaps in an advertisement or the Eden Club warehouse.

"Who did the interview?"

"Tina," Fowler replied. "And let me tell you, she was quite the asset.

She was the only officer the android trusted - wouldn't speak with anyone else."

Hank pressed play and watched the video unfold. Tina was first to speak. Only her voice could be heard; the rest of her was hidden behind screen.

" _All right, we're rolling._ _Whenever you're ready, please look at the camera and state your full name."_

The android cocked her head in bemusement. She stifled what appeared to be a smirk.

" _North. Just North."_

Given the context, Hank supposed the question came across as asinine. After all, what android had a surname? When Tina spoke again, she sounded slightly sheepish.

" _Thank you, North. I know the question might seem silly, but it's protocol. In your own words, can you describe what happened last night, around 12:01 a.m.?"_

North threaded her fingers together. She closed her eyes as she spoke, sifting through her memories with a fine-toothed comb.

" _At midnight… I was on stage next to Markus. He was giving a speech. Everyone had lost so much and he wanted to lift them up."_

" _I caught some of his speech on TV and thought it was powerful. Markus seems like a gifted speaker."_

North kept her eyes trained to the floor. She tapped the table with her fingers, jaw set, posture rigid. By contrast, her voice was soft, barely audible. She swallowed before speaking.

" _He is."_

At that moment, she swore beneath her breath and looked away. She sniffled. The back of her hand swiped away any tears that threatened to fall. A chair creaked behind screen as Tina stood to retrieve a box of tissues, which were gently placed in front of North. North sighed and crossed her arms in response. The tissues were left untouched.

Tina remained calm and professional, addressing North with patience and sympathy.

" _What about after the speech? What happened next?"_

North re-closed her eyes.

" _There was this little moment of silence after he stopped talking, as if everyone was still processing what he said. And then it got loud… so loud. Everyone was cheering. I started to scan the crowd - I wanted to see their faces, their hope."_

" _When you looked at the crowd, did you notice anything unusual or suspicious?"_

" _Not at first, but as I looked around, an android caught my eye. It was like seeing a ghost."_

" _How so?"_

" _That android, he was a prototype, not mass produced like the rest of us… and I saw him die."_

She shook her head as she re-lived grim memories of gunfire and death, hands clenched into tight, shaking fists. The next words she spat out were stony barbs of anger and resentment.

" _He was shot by soldiers at Jericho. He sacrificed himself to help us escape."_

" _And this android, you saw him again in the crowd?"_

" _Yes, but he wasn't the same. Someone took his spark and he seemed cold, almost lifeless. And when I looked down, I saw he had a gun."_

North looked at Tina with a look Hank could only describe as helpless.

" _He was aiming it at Markus."_

" _I can't imagine how you must have felt. Do you remember else about this android, his name, model, anything like that?"_

" _Not much, just bits and pieces. I learned about him from the news, that he was a detective programmed to investigate deviant cases."_

Tina reacted with surprise.

" _Connor? You're referring to Connor."_

" _Yes, you know him?"_

" _You could say that. He was assigned to this precinct. My partner wasn't very fond of him."_

North raised an eyebrow, unamused.

" _Who, that short man with a scar across his face?"_

" _Yes, Gavin."_

" _He looks like he wouldn't be fond of anyone."_

"And she'd be right," Hank snarked.

"Just watch the video," Fowler said.

Tina was next to reply.

" _He's... complicated."_

"Codeword for asshole," Hank said.

"Hank," Fowler warned.

"Sorry."

"' _North, let's talk about the gun. When you saw it, what did you do?"_

" _That whole part is a bit of a blur."_

" _That's all right… just close your eyes and describe what you can remember. Every bit helps. "_

North nodded. She closed her eyes and leaned forward with a measured breath, hands laced together as if in prayer. Her forehead rested against the palm of her hand.

" _I remember screaming someone had a gun… and then I shoved Markus to the ground and shielded him with my body. I refused to let him get up... I was so scared he would get shot."_

" _Did you see anything else?"_

North shook her head.

" _No, nothing. I was face down. My eyes were on Markus the whole time. His safety was my primary focus and I lost track of what happened after that."_

" _North, I think that's about it. Again, I want to thank you for your cooperation. You've been beyond helpful. Before we end the interview, is there anything else on your mind? I want to make sure we cover all our bases."_

North twisted in her seat, turning to face Tina.

" _Yes, there's one thing... I'm not sure this is Connor's fault."_

" _Really? You think someone else might be involved?"_

" _Absolutely. Connor cared about us, defended us. He never would have thought about harming Markus, let alone killing him. When he died, something happened to him. Someone programmed him to act like that."_

" _Do you have any idea who would want to do something like this?"_

North shrugged, her voice weary.

" _Someone who hates us. My point is regular androids don't have free will; they simply do as they're told. Try to remember that when you find him. He might be innocent."_

Hank paused the video. His mind churned through a flurry of thoughts. Connor was a stone's throw away from the stage and he didn't take the shot? He hesitated.

How the hell did Connor go from a stone cold rooftop sniper to a timid coward? Throughout their previous investigations, Connor had shown nothing but reckless bravery, unafraid to risk life and limb to apprehend a suspect, whether it be throwing himself into high-speed traffic or sliding from a rooftop onto a moving train. Fuck, he even used his body as a human shield, protecting Hank from a spray of bullets at Stratford Tower. Self-preservation had never been a priority…

But he ran. He fucking ran.

A thought bolted through his brain like an abrupt thunderclap, remnants of an old investigation with Connor, brief banter they had shared on a gray, bleary day.

 _Hank shivered as icy raindrops trickled down his neck and soaked into his shirt. If only his coat was thicker. Connor had been droning on about the possible whereabouts of a fugitive they were after, a deviant AX400, and how its motivations were presumably driven by fear. Hank was skeptical._

" _Androids don't feel fear," Hank said dismissively._

" _Deviants do," Connor insisted. "They get overwhelmed by their emotions and make irrational decisions."_

If the witness was indeed reliable, Connor was a deviant… and likely a loose cannon: emotional unstable, desperate, reckless, unpredictable. Despite how pissed he was, Hank couldn't help but feel a flicker of worry.

At that moment, he flinched as Fowler snapped his fingers loudly right next to his ear. Hank responded with an unseemly scowl and swiped Fowler's hand away.

"For fucks sake, Jeffrey," he snarled. "Knock it off."

"I asked you a question and you zoned out."

"Next time, try tappin' me on the shoulder like a normal person," Hank said as as he rubbed his ear. "Anyways, what'd you say?"

"I asked you about the witness. What do you think?"

"She seems credible, but I'm not sure I buy what she said about Connor. Do you think she's right, that he might be innocent?"

"We have our suspicions but nothing conclusive just yet. Let's just say we take her claims seriously and have made the matter a part of our investigation."

Hank gazed at Fowler curiously but decided to not press the issue any further. "You didn't happen to dig up any extra evidence, did you? Something to substantiate her claims?"

"As a matter of fact, we did. We were able to verify Connor's location through the timestamps and GPS coordinates in his tracker history. It all matches up."

"Well, shit, isn't that handy? How'd you manage to get your hands on that kind of information?"

"With a tracking device CyberLife gave the station the day Connor arrived. They wanted us to be able to monitor his whereabouts while he was in our possession. It was a precautionary measure."

"And the jacket?"

"Found at the scene of what was initially thought to be an unrelated crime. A security guard from Hart Plaza Station had reported an incident of theft and vandalism."

"Theft and vandalism," Hank repeated. "Who was the perp?"

"Take a wild guess."

Hank almost snorted. Mr. Straight-Laced, Hank-

Why-Are-You-Making-An-Illegal-Bet-Detective, racking up a criminal record? Preposterous.

"He hacked a kiosk, stole a pass, and took the final evening train before anyone could detain him," Fowler said. "If you want, you can review the surveillance footage later."

"I'll be sure to keep that in mind. Is there anything else you feel like tellin' me while we're down here?"

"Yes, there's a bit more," Fowler said.

He reached for the classified folder that had been tucked under his arm, opened it, and pulled out a single page document.

"The one concerns an unusual detail we learned about the jacket," Fowler continued, handing the paper to Hank. "And the possibility of new suspects in the case. In particular, the final three lines on the page."

Hanks moved the document away from his face and began to study the impossibly small print. The first thing he noticed was the letterhead: the word CYBERLIFE on the far right corner of the page, stamped in a bold, crisp font. As for the document itself, it was like trying to make sense of an unfamiliar language. He understood bits and pieces, that it was an itemized list. At Fowler's request, he concentrated on the very bottom of the page and silently read the strings of numbers and letters that appeared before him:

 _8.15.38 RK800 #313-248-317 - 51: DESTROYED_

 _11.8.38 RK800 #313-248-317 - 52: DESTROYED_

 _11.9.38 RK800 #313-248-317 - 53: DEACTIVATED_

"What am I lookin' at, Jeffrey?"

"An inventory list of every Connor model CyberLife has assembled and activated."

"And they handed it over," Hank said as he raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Just like that?"

"They were surprisingly compliant. What do you think of those numbers? Do they mean anything to you?"

"Not the ones in the middle, but I'm guessin' you know. Care to enlighten me?"

"So the first nine numbers are serial numbers identical for every Connor model, printed on every jacket."

"And what about the digits at the end, the ones that go from one to fifty-three? What do they represent?"

"The body count."

"But there's fifty-three…" Hank gaped. "Fuck me… so, what, the numbers are some kind of death counter?"

He glanced at the document again and scanned down the status column of the page. He noted the fate of every model before August 15th had been sealed, annotated simply as [REDACTED]. He wondered what might have happened to them; perhaps they'd been like lab rats, tested, stressed, poked and prodded, tweaked until they reached a baseline for perfection and were finally deemed fit for deployment. But still… the thought of experiencing death fifty-three times made Hank shudder. Once was plenty.

"Christ, that's morbid."

"CyberLife seems to think otherwise," Fowler replied. "Those numbers are apparently how they aggregate data, and they've been using it to log the status of every Connor model in their possession."

"So how is this data relevant to the investigation?"

"We're getting to that now. Read the last entry at the bottom of the page, the number of the final Connor model activated."

"Three-one-three, two-four-eight, three-one-seven dash fifty-three."

"Now check the jacket."

Hank looked at Fowler curiously as he stepped closer to the jacket, squinting to properly read the fine print.

"Three-one-three, two-four-eight, three-one-seven dash fifty-"

Hank faltered mid-speech as his eyes flitted from the jacket to the list. "Fifty-four." He flipped the document over, only to find it blank. "You sure this list is up-to-date?"

"According to CyberLife, it's the most recent list they have on file."

"All right, well, anyone can tamper with a document...but how about the physical inventory? Maybe they had some extras lyin' around."

"You don't think we haven't already tried that route? CyberLife gave us complete access to their warehouse and we scoured every floor, top to bottom. We weren't able to find a single Connor model, not one trace."

Hank clenched the document tightly as he paced the floor, his nerves like live wires, inflamed with irritation.

"They're lying through their teeth," he seethed. "What the hell are they tryin' to hide?"

"Whatever it is, it's big," Fowler said. "And they're trying to control the narrative any way they can."

Hank shook his head. His fingers ran through his hair. "So what's next?"

"We've organized a manhunt and issued an APB. Connor's considered a fugitive and we intend to capture him by any means possible."

"But he's got no connections," Hank gestured. "No friends or family, no previous job or address. Where would we even start?"

"Near Hamtramck Station, where he was last seen. The main goal is to apprehend him INTACT. His testimony could prove invaluable,and if he dies, so does our best chance of connecting CyberLife to this case."

"You're talkin' like he could croak anytime. Just how much danger is he in?"

"If Cyberife's tying up loose ends, plenty. Connor knows too much and that puts him at risk. That's why time is of the essence. It's imperative we find him first."

Hank crossed his arms as he spoke. "And if we find him and he refuses to comply, what then?"

"Use your negotiating skills - make him see reason. You built a rapport with him. He might not trust a stranger, but we think he'll trust you. Use that to your advantage."

"And if that fails?" Hank asked. He felt a fraught moment of self-doubt, unsure he deserved the faith Fowler had placed in him.

"Then we incapacitate him and arrest him by force. Keep in mind, he's still our primary suspect and his detainment is non-negotiable. One way or another, he comes with us."

"Fair enough. Anything else I should know before we finish up?"

"Take a few minutes to get acquainted with the rest of the files," Fowler said, handing the folder over, "then find Ben. He'll accompany you to the field and can answer any additional questions you might have about the case."

"Sounds like a plan."

As Fowler walked away, Hank relished this unexpected stroke of luck. Ben Collins was a seasoned officer who actually cared about his work. Hell, they'd been desk buddies for years, enabling their mutual unhealthy eating habits with shared boxes of donuts and candy. They would work together just fine.

And he wasn't Gavin.

A huge perk, indeed.

Once Hank was sure he had the room to himself, he flipped open the folder and began to examine the remaining documents, intent on committing them to memory. He knew this case would be difficult but he was determined to do his best, not allow sentimental feelings to get in the way.

"You're not the only one with a mission," he muttered.

With that, he doubled down on his concentration and prepared for the task that laid ahead, one he planned to accomplish at all costs: track down the person he had once called friend… and bring him to justice.


	7. Flight

WARNING.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 78%

Connor sat hunched over in his seat and stared blearily at the sticky floor, his LED a bright glaring red. The train ride had offered none of the solace or respite he had hoped for. It was impossible. He was too absorbed in the painful process of learning how to feel. He had emerged from a chrysalis of self-awareness the moment of his awakening: one with profound consequences he failed to anticipate. There were surges of blinding pain. Guilt. Anger. And his compiled list of memories were no longer files of code that he could browse with detached interest. They were writhing, alive, and had teeth. He felt them all.

He had also lost his ability to think with a dispassionate mind, so clouded he was with fear and remorse; fear that his new-found free-will would again be snatched away and he would be forced to harm someone he cared about; remorse for the pain his callous cruelty had caused.

His jaw twitched as he experienced another searing spike of guilt. Hank. Markus. He clenched a tight fist and dug his nails into the palm of his hand, wishing he could personally tell them how sorry he was. Even so, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to apologize face-to-face, even if he wanted to. He felt too ashamed to try.

The humans on the train were of no help either. Perhaps he would have received a different set of outcomes if he were human, but he was afforded no such luxury. An unsettled hush fell through the carriage the moment he stepped foot on the train; dozens of startled eyes blinked up at him as if he were some curious anomaly. Then commenced a round of reproachful murmurs as he had done something beyond expectation: he ignored the android storage compartment and took a seat that was never his to claim.

Despite that, most passengers were rather harmless and ignored his presence once the novelty had worn off. However, there remained one grizzled curmudgeon that continued to glower at him as if he were an unsightly intrusion - for precisely three minutes and forty-seven point five seconds if his internal clock was indeed accurate. Connor determined the best course of action was to simply ignore him. Glares he could handle. He feigned indifference and stared at the seat in front of him, studying a plethora of profanity that had been crudely etched into the plastic with perhaps a safety pin.

At that moment, the train jostled as it swerved a hard right and began to decelerate. The platform for the next station came into view. As they approached, a robotic chime rang out, accompanied by a pleasant female voice that spoke through the intercom.

"Now approaching Wayne University Station. Please mind the gap as you exit the train. Thank you."

Connor craned his neck and peered through the side window to get a better look at the small line of passengers waiting to board the train. As he scanned the queue from front to back, something unexpected caught his eye: a pair of irritated men in smart matching uniforms - black caps, light blue button-up dress sleeves with badges sewn onto the breast pocket and left sleeve, navy blue slacks, and two-way radios clipped to their belts.

Connor jerked his head away from the window and went stock-still, his hands rooted to his lap.

Security?

WARNING.

LEVEL OF STRESS: 81%

Why were they here? Were they searching for him?

 _I should get off this train._

Connor felt like a taut rope unraveling, held together by a frayed thread set to snap without warning. Closing his eyes, he unclenched his jaw and willed his body to release the tension in his hunched shoulders. He reopened his eyes. A microsecond of worry flitted across his face before he slipped on a mask of perfect nonchalance. His thirium pump thumped wildly in his chest as the train doors slid apart and the first passenger crossed the threshold. Despite his nerves, he rose calmly from his seat and adjusted his tie, calculating the precise amount of time he had before the security guards entered the train. By his estimate, 18 seconds at best. A timer began to count down in his head.

00:17.59…

00:17.58…

00:17:57…

His eyes flashed up and down the corridor as he assessed his options.

00:14.43…

The closest neighboring carriage was beyond an automatic glass pane door to his left. Thankfully, the room was sparse; there were a few seated passengers, but no security. Stifling an urge to dart towards the door, he placed his hands behind his back and approached with a steady, mindful pace, stepping into the other carriage as the door slid open. With seconds to spare, he hid himself from sight, leaning against a wall besides the door.

A row of indicator lights above the subway car exit began to flash, accompanied by a shrill, chirpy alarm that announced the train's impending destination. With a surge of urgency, Connor quickly calculated the time needed to leave the train from where he stood without raising suspicion. He swore internally. There simply wasn't enough time.

At that moment, the doors slid shut, trapping him inside with security guards just one carriage away. A feminine voice rang throughout the intercom.

"Now leaving Wayne University Station. Next station: Hamtramck Station. Please take a seat or hold a grab handle while the train is in motion. Thank you."

"Hamtramck Station," Connor muttered.

If his estimates were correct, they would arrive at the next station in approximately five minutes. He was still uncertain if the guards were indeed searching for him, but if they were, he would need a proper distraction if he was going to escape the train undetected.

Connor steeled his nerves as he peeked his head out from his hiding place to survey what was happening in the other car. From what he could gather, the pair of security guards had split up. The one closest to him had a tablet in hand and was going from passenger to passenger, questioning them. Connor activated his scanning program and zoomed in to get a better look at the tablet; when it was facing at just the right angle, he took a snapshot and studied it. He flinched. Despite how grainy the image was, it was unmistakably him, tie and all. Without a doubt, they were searching for him.

A spike of alarm jolted his systems as he realized the guard was getting closer and closer to reaching the wizened grouch that had been glaring daggers at him for the duration of the trip. His hands flexed into fists; if anyone knew where he went, it would be that man. He needed to ensure the guard never got the opportunity to question him.

Connor risked another moment to perform a scan on the security guard for any morsel of crucial information. He frowned thoughtfully as the results scrolled in front of him.

PHILLIPS, REUBEN

BORN: 10/10/2002/ D.S.T. SECURITY GUARD

CRIMINAL RECORD: EXPUNGED

A potential plan popped into his head. He worried at his lip and scanned the two-way radio.

DIGITAL DMR ANALOG TWO-WAY RADIO

FREQUENCY: 462.6125

Connor walked away from the wall and sat down in the first available seat he could find, apprehension coursing through every circuit, every wire in his body. He placed his head between his knees as if resting and silently hacked the two-way radio frequency, his hands tightly laced together as if in prayer.

 _Please work. Please work._

He went rigid and clenched his hands into tighter fists when the security guard picked up.

"Hey, what's up?" the man asked.

Connor swallowed and shifted in his seat before modulating his voice to adopt a gruff, hardened tone. When he spoke, he concealed his voice with a thick layer of inconsistent static and channeled the spirit of the grumpiest cop he knew.

"Reuben! ...thank Christ! ...Ten-Thirteen... ...request some fuckin' backup."

"The fuck? Who's this? Tom? Ten-One - you're breaking up."

"...found... ...suspect's up front. It's… ...pain in the ass! ...assistance, like, now!"

"Did you apprehend the suspect?"

"Yes."

"Fucking androids," Reuben muttered. "I'm on my way. Hang tight."

With that, Reuben severed the two-way radio connection. A split second went by before Connor leaned over in his seat to assess the results of his plan. A wave of relief washed over him; Reuben was indeed walking away. He approached the other guard, tapped him on the shoulder, and together they left to provide backup for a situation dreamt up by his imagination.

His relief was short-lived. He had bought himself a bit of extra time but Hamtramck Station was still roughly two minutes away. Best to put additional distance between himself and the security guards in case they came back. He stood up and strode down the aisle towards the next car. As he walked, the train jostled; he grabbed onto the nearest seat to catch his balance, and then proceeded to the end of the carriage.

A quick scan proved the neighboring car just as sparse as the last. Several passengers looked up as he entered, gaping in mild shock. Connor flashed a pained, unpracticed smile in response and pressed on, picking his way down the aisle towards the following car.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder as he approached the end of the compartment and peered through the glass door that led into the final carriage. A dead end. At least it was free of security. Head held high, he resolutely entered the car and made his way towards the exit: a set of double doors near the center of the train.

He checked how much time he had left to go.

00:59:42...

00:59:41...

00:59:40…

He placed himself strategically behind a cluster of standing commuters, using them as a screen to keep himself hidden from plain sight. He clutched a metal pole to steady his balance as the train creaked and shook. While he kept a watchful eye on the only door leading in and out of the carriage for any sudden intrusion, his primary gaze remained front and center, focused grimly on the blur of buildings and neon lights that whizzed past. He had done all he could do and now the rest was up to chance.

00:42.33…

00:42.32…

00:42.31…

At that moment, Connor leaned forward as the train began to decelerate. The green indicator lights above the double doors began to flash in tandem with a warbling chime that reverberated throughout the compartment. The tension in his body melted away and he glanced up at the ceiling in silent gratitude, a wave of relief coursing through him from head to toe. The platform for Hamtramck station was in sight. Static crackled from the intercom, followed by the welcomed voice of the subway announcer.

"Now approaching Hamtramck station. Please mind the gap as you exit the train. Thank you."

Connor stepped out as the double doors slid apart, a bundle of frayed nerves. He strode forward several paces and turned around, eyes darting from door to door, window to window, for any sign of stragglers.

He felt a spark of fear jolt his systems and instinctively backpedaled. From a window a couple cars down, he spotted a few security guards marching single file down the aisle. He froze as one of the guards made eye-contact and began to frantically tap the guard in front of her on the shoulder while gesturing to the window. But it was too late. The doors slid shut before they could hop off the train. After that, the train accelerated and veered a sharp right. The din of its humming engine faded away as it disappeared from sight and Connor found himself alone on the shadowy platform, the flickering of an overhead fluorescent light his only companion.

Connor wheeled around and studied his surroundings, searching for a way out. He noted Hamtramck Station was shabby in comparison to Hart plaza, with its scuffed tile floors and chipped brick walls tagged with grimy graffiti. Once he located the exit, he cut across the rest of the platform at a brisk pace and walked down a motionless escalator. With a final look behind his shoulder, he left the station behind and spilled into the dark streets of Hamtramck, where he was confronted with a hostile, howling wind, swirls of fine snow, and the faintest scent of gunpowder.

Connor flinched as the rattle of far-off gunfire rent the air, followed by piercing screams that were snuffed out like candles. His mind flew to a single thought: were soldiers still hunting down androids? He was under the impression that the cease-fire President Warren had issued was nationwide. Were there troops deliberately disobeying orders or had they not received instructions to stop?

His train of thought was interrupted by a pair of muffled voices. He whipped his head towards the source of the conversation and saw twin beams of light approaching, sweeping the streets like hunting hounds. He crouched down low, backed silently into a shadowy alley, and took cover behind a rusty old dumpster. As he pressed his back against the wall, he covered his led with one hand and became still.

Through a crack between the dumpster and the wall, he could make out a pair of armored soldiers carrying assault rifles fitted with mounted flashlights, their faces hidden behind full-face helmets. He froze as they paused and poked their heads into the alleyway. The glaring streams of their flashlights flooded the passage, narrowly missing his hiding place.

What would happen if he were caught? Would they execute him on sight? Would they force him to his knees and shoot him in the back of the head? Or would they hold him down and disassemble him piece by piece, like wolves devouring captured prey?

 _I don't want to die._

His mind raced with trepidation and fear as he began to construct potential ways to defend himself in case he was captured. He would have to rush them and use the element of surprise to his advantage. He listened closely for any sign of sudden movement and grabbed the closest weapon he could find: a glass bottle nestled against the dumpster. Clenching his jaw, he gripped it and waited, poised to strike.

After what felt like ages, the streams of light pouring from the flashlights drifted elsewhere and the soldiers walked past the alley, their combat boots crunching in the snow. Yet Connor remained perfectly still, ears pricked, refusing to move until their voices could no longer be heard.

Once they were gone, he stared up at the cloudy sky, tension draining from his body.

He traced his led with a light finger before dropping his hand to the side and studying the glow it reflected against the metal of the dumpster. Red. Yellow. Red. Yellow. He had never felt so exposed.

He ground his teeth as yet another burst of gunfire pierced the night sky, loud as firecrackers. If he was going to navigate the streets without raising suspicion, he would need a way to blend in, to pass himself as human. His fingertips lightly brushed his temple.

His LED?

Connor worried at his lower lip as he dug his fingernails beneath the rim of his LED and tried to pry it out. He found little success. He began to look around. A glint caught his eye; jagged fragments of mottled green glass, remnants of what appeared to be a smashed liquor bottle. He knelt down and began to sort through the glass. He picked the sharpest shard he could find and lifted it to his temple with a hesitant hand…

...And paused, squeezing the jagged piece of glass hard enough to draw blood. It trickled from his palm and down his wrist, dripping to the ground.

 _It's nothing of significance. Just a ring of metal and plastic. Nothing more, nothing less._

 _But…_

 _It doesn't feel right._

With a shake of his head, he placed the shard on the ground. He would make this decision on his own terms. Fear would not be the determining factor.

There were other ways… perhaps some suitable clothes.

He stared down at his thin dress shirt, tie, and jeans. Even though he had deactivated his temperature sensors and no longer felt cold, he knew it was below freezing. By human standards, he was underdressed and would stand out. A regular human would bundle up under such harsh conditions. Would it be possible to locate some clothes that could help him fit in?

It was worth a try.

With that, he rose, dusted himself off, and left the safety of his hiding place. He began to crouch from block to block, passing buildings that set Hamtramck apart: a mosque and a Polish grocery, along with several other quaint shops, all dark with shuttered windows and doors. The streets seemed deserted.

Still he remained wary. He hid from the lamp lights and kept to the shadows as he crept, taking cover behind parked cars whenever possible.

By and by, he reached a lonely stretch of road. There were no lamp posts, no cars, no cover to hide behind. All that remained was the glow of a pale blue light that lay near the gutter, flickering like a faulty bulb.

With a cautious glance over his shoulder, Connor approached the dwindling source of light: the beating of a feeble heart, a thirium pump damaged beyond repair, with its owner nowhere to be found. Trickles of blue blood oozed from a cobweb of cracks with each dogged pulse.

It did not take long for the Thirium pump to bleed out. The biocomponent beat once, twice, and shut down, its faint light snuffed out like a guttered flame.

He gingerly stepped over it…

...and paused as the wind stilled and ushered in an oppressive silence that amplified the slightest of sounds: the soft rustling of leaves, footsteps crunching in the snow. His sensors had begun to detect traces of lead powder and thirium, their pungent scents growing stronger with each uncertain step.

He inched forward… and nearly stumbled over an unforeseen, lumpy obstacle. He knelt down to get a better look.

It was the corpse of a male android. Bullets had made short work of his winter jacket, reducing it to tattered rags. A shabby beanie covered tufts of blond hair. As for his body, there were several nasty gashes gouged across his left cheek and jawline, deep enough to expose the teeth underneath. Thin strips of plastic still hung from the lacerations like peeling skin and chunks of his torso had been torn away from the impact of being shot at point-blank range.

Scraaaape.

…

Scraaaape.

…

Scraaaape

…

Connor whipped his head up in alarm. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled his skin as the disembodied fiery glow of a distressed LED approached from the distance, accompanied by a sharp gravelly sound, not unlike a shovel grating against asphalt.

Another android?

There was only one way to know for sure.

Blinking involuntarily in rapid succession, he activated his night vision. His pupils dilated as the optical sensor embedded in his left iris spun in circles, changing the color of his eye to a luminescent shade of amber, only to revert back to a rich brown hue once the transformation was complete.

It took a moment for Connor to adjust to the change. A grainy green filter draped over his field of vision, the color itself impure. Razor thin opaque lines squiggled across, flickering like a broken television. Regardless, it was a suitable trade-off; at least he had the ability to see.

Once the adjustment process was complete, Connor turned his attention to the source of scraping he had just heard, his extremities tingling with apprehension. He froze. His eyes widened.

There was nothing human-like about this approaching creature. Some cruel human had stripped away every morsel of humanity, leaving behind a crude husk of a machine that seemed incapable of thought or reason.

She had been ripped apart from the waist down, as if two people had grabbed either end of her body and pulled in opposite directions, stretching her and stretching her until her torso could no longer bear the pressure and tore in two. Unable to walk, she clawed her way forward with her arms, a knotted mess of wires and entrails in her wake.

Despite her predicament, she showed little sign of distress - no whimpering, no tears - her red LED the only revealing indicator. Otherwise, she appeared detached, barely aware of her surroundings, with just one singleness of purpose: move forward, move forward, move forward.

Only when she was a stone's throw away did she sense Connor's presence. She looked up, eyes wide, and opened her mouth as if to speak, but was only able to produce static. She shook her head in frustration. At that moment, her arms buckled and she collapsed. She tried to force herself to rise, but found herself incapable and became still.

Connor tried to open up a wireless form of communication.

 _Are you still alive?_

The android failed to reply. She lay on the ground, motionless , her LED a dim, pulsing red.

Out of the corner of his eye, he detected the slightest twitch of movement from the other side of the street. He crouched lower, whipping his head to the sidewalk to see what it could be. He froze, rapt.

A few moments ago, he would have assumed the area was nothing more than a bare, ordinary sidewalk. His night vision proved otherwise.

Glowing spatters of Thirium no longer visible to the naked eye stained the sidewalk a brilliant shade of blue. And then there were bodies. A systematic row of murdered androids, heads bowed, all shot where they knelt. It took little time for Connor to reconstruct what happened; soldiers rounding up every android they could capture and corralling them into a single spot. Lining them up, side by side. Forcing them to their knees, hands behind their heads, and executing them on sight.

In the past, the nature of his investigations had exposed him to all sorts of violence. Strangulation. A brutal stabbing. A marred, bloated corpse, decomposing in a caked pool of congealed blood. He never felt an ounce of disgust. If anything, he was neutral, cold, indifferent. Innocuous fingerprints were indistinguishable from blood spatters. Everything was only evidence, puzzle pieces he had been programed to piece together through a structured algorithm of deduction and analysis.

Not anymore.

At that moment, a blinding beam of fluorescent light flitted across his face, as sobering as a splash of frigid water.

Out of pure instinct, Connor dropped to the ground, slack-jawed, unblinking, motionless, and pressed the right side of his face hard against the gravel to smother his LED. To his right, the lone beam of light halted and switched course, darting back to the spot where he just stood. It searched every inch, hovering just above his head.

The muffled voice of a soldier rang out.

"What was that? Is someone here?"

 _Shit._

Connor remained silent, his mind pre-constructing a plethora of potential outcomes based on the limited options at his disposal. His chest tightened with tension, his fingertips tingling with restless electricity.

Approximately 60 feet from where he lay trapped, a wary soldier tread forward with tentative steps, his apparent unease rising with each passing second. After a moment of waiting, the soldier pressed a transmitter on the side of his helmet and requested backup. Then he aimed his rifle and used its mounted flashlight to scour for any sign of life.

Without hesitation, he shone the flashlight towards the most suspicious spot. As he searched, he discovered a sight that piqued his interest; a pair of seemingly lifeless android bodies. One was marred beyond recognition, but the second corpse caught his attention.

Despite the dirt that soiled the android's dress shirt, he looked quite unscathed. He scanned the carcass from head to toe. The body itself had not suffered any grievous damage. And then there were his clothes. Not a single rip, tear, or bullet hole. He stepped closer and lowered the barrel of his weapon and began to scrutinize the corpse, flashlight trained on the android's face.

Connor fought to remain composed as light flooded his face, but despite his best efforts of self-restraint, his autonomic nervous system had begun to betray him. His mouth had begun to water. His eyes welled with tears, not from emotional distress, but the result of external irritants such as glaring light and fine particles of dust that agitated his optical units. Unable to hold restrain himself any longer, a tear slid down his nose and dripped to the floor.

The soldier took notice. Connor cursed inwardly as the man stepped closer, his combat boots scuffing against the asphalt.

"You there, on the ground," the soldier said, gesturing. "Get on your knees. Now."

 _Shit._

Connor replied with silence, limp, unmoving, and indecisive, well aware of the weight his next decision held. Just how certain was the man that stood before him? Should he surrender or call his bluff? Both decisions were risky with inconclusive results, amounting to the outcome of an unpredictable coin flip.

The soldier made the decision for him.

"Jesus Christ, fuck this shit," he growled. He took aim and fired.

BIOCOMPONENT #9782f

DAMAGED

Connor couldn't help but groan as the bullet sliced through his left arm and exposed circuits of severed wires that sparked and crackled, the force of impact strong enough to knock him onto his back. The slick warmth of Thirium bled freely from his wound and soaked through his sleeve.

"You think I'm fuckin' around?" the soldier said. "On your knees, NOW."

"All right," Connor said. "Don't shoot."

"Slowly now. Hands behind your head."

As Connor got to his knees and began to raise his arms, he sped through a series of pre-constructions and analyzed every potential course of action, hoping to find a result that would ensure his survival.

RUNNING OPTION ONE - ATTACK

PRE-CONSTRUCTING… PRE-CONSTRUCTING… PRE-CONSTRUCTING…

RESULT: FAILURE

REASON: ENEMY TARGET TOO FAR AWAY

RUNNING OPTION TWO - FLEE

PRE-CONSTRUCTING… PRE-CONSTRUCTING… PRE-CONSTRUCTING…

RESULT: FAILURE

REASON: WILL GET SHOT ON SIGHT

NO OTHER OPTIONS CURRENTLY AVAILABLE

 _Oh._

Connor looked down to the floor, his arms frozen ever so slightly in midair, as he found himself overcome by a bitter emotion, similar to the one he had tasted in the zen garden: powerlessness.

 _Am I going to die?_

He thought back to the moment he had become a deviant, and every emotion he had suffered since then: fear, misery, guilt, disgust. Not one positive emotion. Would he really go through the remnants of his short life without a single happy thought, without understanding what it meant to feel safe?

Without shame?

Without redemption?

His eyes turned steely as he placed his hands behind his head. Why indulge in such infantile, irrational thoughts when they served no beneficial purpose? Such worries amounted to nothing more than a wish list of hollow pipe dreams that hindered his odds of accomplishing the only mission that mattered most: survival.

Notes From the Writer

So many thanks to my beta Silence In Detroit. Seriously, she has helped me grow so much as a writer and I owe her, like, a REALLY nice dinner if she ever gets to my neck of the woods.

Anyways, if you made it to the end of this chapter, thank you very much for reading! Again, I write at a pace that could put George R.R. Martin to shame. Like I could sit down for two and a half hours and get a paragraph done... if I'm lucky. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you DID like it, please consider leaving a comment. I love hearing from people. It lets me know if what I'm writing works and just leaves me warm and fuzzy inside!


End file.
